Rodriguez turned around and walked away, head down, hands in his pockets, kicking at stones in the mud. He disappeared into the trees. There were voices—a bit of argument, possibly—and then she heard movement in the woods down there. Silence after that, and she sat tense with her hands on the grenade ready to arm it; Crobey watched the trees unblinkingly. Then after a time they heard the Jeep engines roar, and growl away.
After that they heard nothing and Crobey slowly sagged back on his haunches.
She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s a trick, Harry.”
“No.” Then he leered at her. “You look like hell, ducks.”
“So do you.” His cheek had stopped bleeding but he was a mess.
“Can you walk?”
“I guess. But what if he’s left somebody out there with a rifle?”
“He hasn’t.” He took her arm. She had no resources left—only the fear that somebody out there was waiting to snipe at them when they exposed themselves. Harry cocked the Uzzi and held it one-handed, ready to shoot, and helped her walk out into the hazy dripping twilight.
Below the cave the fires were dying. She brooded for a while at Emil Draga’s corpse.
They went down slowly, Harry half carrying her, limping. “He’s not a bad bloke,” Harry said. At first she didn’t know who he was talking about. Then he said, “Mostly I guess it’s a mistake to get to know your enemy. You might turn out to like the bastard. I think you’d like Rodrigo.”
“Maybe.”
“Ducks—”
“What, Harry?”
“Thanks.”
She began to smile a little. She looked down at the wreckage of her clothing and the bruised patches of exposed skin. “I am a lovely sight for you, aren’t I,” she murmured. “I’d like to get cleaned up and then I’d like to get into a nice cool bar. With you.”
“Right, ducks. Let’s find Glenn, now.”
“Ah, Harry, I hate to admit such a ghastly cornball thing but I do love you. Without reservation. And I guess that will do,” she mused in surprise, “for openers.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1979 by John Ives
cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
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